Adrenaline Junkie [Book 2 Complete]

The soft scratching of Archie's Runic Scriber against steel sheets echoed through the cave. Its steady and rhythmic hum of mana being etched into steel was punctuated every now and again by minor explosions that would be followed by the sharp thud of a wooden chair hitting the stone floor.

Archie sat at his stone-carved desk, hunched slightly forward, his brows furrowed in deep concentration. Sheets of etched steel lay in organized stacks beside him, some glowing faintly with freshly etched runes of Lesser – Lesser to Moderate – Lesser quality.

The dim orange glow of the crystal lanterns overhead bathed the cave in warm light, casting long shadows across the scattered piles of books, half-finished prototypes, and scribbled notes. As far as cave warming gifts went, Archie thought it was a pretty solid one from Tim and Aoife - and apparently so did Volos and Arsenic.

The twin centipedes often swung from lantern to lantern like tiny acrobats using thin vines they created when merged. When they missed, they either landed on a mana platform created by him or were caught by him tossing his headdress beneath them at the last second.

How did he always know when they were falling? Simple – when the chittering and squealing stopped.

Tonight, however, they had chosen a different game: sneaking into his hair.

Arsenic's neon-green body curled behind his left ear, while Volos slithered up the right side of his neck and vanished into his thick hair. Archie chuckled lightly as he felt Volos nudge his head with his own. A moment later, his legs began gently skittering over his scalp.

If someone had asked him years ago what he thought would happen if he took care of a magical creature, he never would've guessed that it would give him head massages.

He exhaled slowly, shoulders easing without pausing his work. His Runic Scriber quietly refilled with his mana as he continued inscribing his latest theoretically viable spatial runic script – one designed to anchor coordinates passing through the chamber that would house his Livingwood Propagator.

Among its various functions was the Resonance Wayfinder (Twin). Once properly activated, it would transmit a signal into space, where Bralmir's teleporter, linked to the second Livingwood Propagator, would intercept the signal and relay back the coordinates necessary for a successful teleportation lock.

Dragging his Runic Scriber from the steel sheet and onto a second one, recently etched with a stabilizer, he connected them both to an unlinked Earth Runic Base, inscribing the top half on one sheet and the bottom half on the other.

Archie mused to himself as he placed his Runic Scriber down, This should, in theory at least, only accept and lock on to a similar signal of whatever would be placed into the signal chamber, aka the Livingwood Propagator.

Flexing his fingers against the creeping exhaustion crawling toward his brain, Archie felt Volos shift somewhere behind his right temple – exactly where a headache began budding. Arsenic chirped softly and, mimicking Volos, began moving his legs in small circles.

Thank you, both, Archie smiled softly, patting the tops of their heads with a finger. His voice was gone – shredded after defying the hex for a third time – but words weren't needed. Through the bond they shared, Volos and Arsenic could feel his gratitude as clearly as if he'd spoken it aloud.

He grinned faintly and tapped the surface of the steel plates. Just a few more iterations, he mused, to make sure nothing unexpected happens when they're layered atop the other.

Without leaving his seat, Archie let his posture relax, one elbow propped loosely against the desk as his fingers drifted into motion above the cluttered table. He moved through slow, deliberate patterns in the air, spatial mana curling between them in faint ribbons.

It flowed semi-smoothly, folding and looping like an invisible thread drawn into familiar braids. Just two weeks ago, this would've been impossible. Now? It was muscle memory, thanks to how often he'd practiced his spatial manipulation. Still, his thoughts were beginning to drift.

He absently rubbed the side of his head, fingertips brushing through thick locks of dark hair when –

Snap!

His hand halted mid-motion. There was no pain, just the distinct click of mandibles closing on his bare finger.

He blinked, then looked down as Volos – the black-toned centipede – crawled out from the cover of his hair and onto his palm with purpose. The spirit beast gave him what could only be described as a pointed look, his small antennae twitching forward and mandibles held wide in exaggerated displeasure.

Archie raised an eyebrow.

Volos, clearly unamused, gestured with a twist of his segmented body and gave a wiggle of his rear – dramatic and pouty. Archie sighed, and with his other hand, gently lifted the centipede to eye level.

What? he thought toward him, dryly. Am I not allowed to itch my own scalp now?

Volos didn't answer in words, but through the bond, Archie received a flicker of rebuke and a very pointed "bro…" sentiment – the kind that made his lip twitch involuntarily. He stared at Volos for a second longer, then noticed something else.

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"…Huh."

He held the spirit beast up a little higher, rotating his palm slightly to get a better view and holding back his chuckles as Volos dangled in mid-air.

The last time he measured them, Volos and Arsenic were barely the length of a steel ingot – five inches at most. Now? Volos' body stretched well past that, closer to seven inches. A full ingot and a half.

Growth spurt, huh? he mused. Guess those hunts you two had yesterday did more than just toughen you two up.

Volos wiggled again, his earlier irritation forgotten.

Archie rolled his eyes, smirking as he lifted the centipede back toward his head. Fine. Back to your throne.

Volos wasted no time in reclaiming his spot, crawling into Archie's hair like a conquering king settling into his rightful nest. A moment later, Arsenic joined him from the other side, poking out for a split second before burrowing back in.

Outside the cave, distant nocturnal birds chirped. Inside, the soft hum of mana pulsed beneath steel sheets.

Archie leaned over the desk again, dismissing the spatial mana coiled around his finger before picking up his charcoal pencil. He absently tapped it against the edge of his notebook pad he purchased a while back, the soft clicks filling the quiet space. With his other hand, he brushed his fingers over the centipedes now curled like sleeping puppies across his scalp.

They stirred at his touch, their legs twitching faintly. He took it as a sign to keep going.

Eyes narrowing in thought, Archie refocused on the schematics splayed across the left side of his table – layers of theoretic runic logic woven into the circular skeleton of a teleportation platform would look like using both the teleporter he'd used in the Netharim Sovereignty's Border Wall and the one he'd used to leave the System Bazaar.

He murmured a silent string of calculations in his head, then used his charcoal pencil to redraw the central pattern linking the Earth Runic Base to the core stabilizer node. His hand hovered over the script, sketching invisible connections. Every line he added had to correspond to a specific mana pathway and flow rhythm.

A flicker of green venom smoke curled up from the edge of his brow – Arsenic's version of a yawn. Archie smirked, reaching up with his free hand and nudging the centipede gently.

Still bored, huh? he mused. The centipede nuzzled into the crook behind his ear.

The halls of the manor were decorated with polished obsidian and occasionally veined with molten red glass that pulsed faintly with ambient mana. Ornate banners of the Netharim Sovereignty hung like watchful eyes above him, each stitched with the tri-serpentine crest of the baron household that ruled this region – House Vael'karis.

"I do have to give it to the house head," Seeth'for chuckled to himself. "The manor's design is quite tasteful."

He moved like a shadow through the corridors, silent and precise, each step a blend of calculated grace and predatory confidence. In one hand, he held a book, bound in a burnt orange leather so aged it looked scorched by time itself.

Across its surface, two irregular black splotches twisted and curled like ink stains, yet upon closer look, they unmistakably formed the shape of a pair of horns coiling inward.

The manor smelled of old stone, blood-soaked wood, and preservation spells that had long since failed.

As Seeth'for walked, his eyes passed over the servants, or what remained of them. Workers were fused into the architecture, bodies twisted and half-rotted yet bound by still-active restraints. Some lined the base of the walls, others jutted halfway from columns, or sat crookedly inside alcoves like grotesque furniture.

Their gazes were glassy and unfocused, nerves long frayed into ruin.

His smirk widened.

Many of the bounded were still breathing. Most were not. None were relevant.

He crossed the hall slowly, his pace deliberate, the weight of the burnt orange book tucked under one arm. Its cover gleamed dully beneath the flickering manalights, the symbol of two curved black horns standing out like bruises.

A window opened the corridor to a view of the gardens below. Carefully manicured hedges coiled in patterns of nobility, and shimmering vines curled up thin trellises woven from gold.

Seeth'for glanced once.

Then turned his head forward.

Nothing in the garden was worth a damn. No rare reagents, no mana-infused coffee beans – nothing to be of use to his research. Just a bunch of decorative fluff that had been organized in a way to garner attention – typical noble nonsense, all show and no substance.

He moved on.

The baron's study was closed.

He passed a shattered mirror and paused.

For a fleeting moment, his reflection stared back – serpentine, calculating, with pale reptilian eyes imposed like a second skin over his own brown ones. Then the surface rippled. The image turned away of its own accord, refusing to mirror him any longer.

Seeth'for continued.

At the corridor's end loomed tall twin doors, carved with the weatherworn crest of Barony Kethrixis: twin sickles crossed over a coiled coral serpent. He let his palm rest on the handle, weighing his options. Grand entrance? Quiet stride? Something in between?

After a moment's thought, he pressed both hands against the doors and pushed. They creaked open with the sound of wood and rusted iron groaning under time's weight. A fetid wave of rot and decay greeted him, thick and clinging – like a wet tissue sliding down his throat.

"Ah, how I missed such a smell," Seeth'for murmured with a smile, inhaling deeply like a sommelier savoring a rare vintage. If only I could experiment this thoroughly in my day job, he mused, instead of being shackled by protocols and polite conversation.

He gave a light pat to the rune-bound book at his hip in silent thanks as he stepped further into the lord's chamber. At the center of the room, shackled to the floor, sat its sole occupant – a lithe lizardwoman, whose previously glistening emerald scales were now matted with blood and grime.

Sylvara Kethrixis.

Once a feared tactician among the barons of the Netharim Sovereignty seventy-three years ago, was now little more than a husk.

The enchanted chains that bound her to the floor dug into her body as they pulsed faintly with containment sigils, anchoring her to the floor. Her eyes, glassy and unfocused.

Without delay, Seeth'for retrieved a small pill ball from his spatial storage, its surface swirling with iridescent hues. He turned it briefly between his fingers, inspecting its quality with a practiced eye. Satisfied, he knelt and pressed it past Sylvara's barely parted lips. Her jaw made the faintest twitch, but there was no resistance – only the dull reflex of a body too broken to protest as the pill slid down her throat.

Seconds stretched.

Then her eyes fluttered, focus sharpening, pain and confusion knitting across her features like a waking dream.

Seeth'for's voice dropped into a smooth, unsettling cadence. "Sylvara, have you calmed down now?"

Her breath hitched as a faint tremor coursed through her body.

"You don't have to fight me. I am not your enemy. Not yet." He whispered as he stepped closer. "I can help you remember. I can help you feel again."

Seeth'for's words slid between the cracks of her fractured mind, planting seeds of dependency, confusion, and a fragile hope.

"You wouldn't want the insects to return, would you?"